


how to make friends in four easy steps - a guide by bruce wayne

by princegrantaire



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Developing Friendships, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-15 02:24:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16924758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princegrantaire/pseuds/princegrantaire
Summary: A series of vignettes detailing Matches Malone's first encounters with certain rogues.





	1. fries, victor

**Author's Note:**

> this was initially supposed to be a 5 + 1 type scenario but unfortunately school got in my way and i still quite desperately wanted to post what i have. so! here are your vignettes featuring bruce's sleaziest alter ego: the arsonist matches malone. this takes place, presumably, somewhere around the first years of bruce's career
> 
> enjoy!

“Say, uh, Mr. Fries, it’s awful cold in here,” Matches manages to get out between chattering teeth. He, of course, deems it dignified to pronounce _Fries_ as in _french fries_ and Victor naturally decides a swift death would be too kind.

“It’s Freeze.” And, always one to seize this sort of opportunities, Victor adds, “Where ever did you hear that name anyway?”

Matches blinks at him a few times, obvious enough even through the ever-present sunglasses. Improvisation isn’t, apparently, one of his virtues. “Arkham,” is the obvious lie he settles on. “That’s right. Arkham. Says so on your door, y’know.” He smiles one of his greasy smiles with some difficulty.

“You were in Arkham?”

There are, quite frankly, any number of things Victor could be doing other than interrogating Matches Malone -- arsonist extraordinaire. He doesn’t _need_ the services of an arsonist, he can barely tolerate the man himself, let alone in the middle one of the more grand-scale operations he’s ventured into in years.

And yet.

And yet Matches Malone, arsonist extraordinaire, had been right there in his makeshift office this morning at dawn. He’d been let in, he’d claimed, but refused to name his so-called associate. _Why_ Victor is giving him the time of day, he can’t tell.

“You’re funny, ya know that, boss?” Matches shakes his head, he’s been left bereft of other gestures in this continuous attempt to warm up his hands, “‘Course I was in Arkham. Who wasn’t, amirite? Guess the docs figured ya gotta be a little loony to torch your own place.”

An explanation tethering uncomfortably on the edge of satisfying.

“I hope you do realise that’s not the kind of track record I’m partial to.”  Victor’s tone might have gone a little sharper than intended. _Fire_ isn’t a risk he’s willing to take around Nora.

“But Mr. Fries--”

“Freeze.”

“ _Freeze_. I really need this job, promise I wouldn’t be asking ya if it wasn’t serious. See, ah, Falcone and his men are probably after me, what with that last stunt I pulled and one thing led to another--” It’s then Matches falls into some sort of nervous laughter, a perfectly believable portrait of a thoroughly desperate man.

It gets worse when Matches, unprompted, slides to his knees and kisses Victor’s gloved hand. Both equally baffled, a long moment passes aided by nothing but faint traces of smiles.

“Get out,” Victor finally whispers.


	2. quinzel, harleen

If, under duress, Harley were forced to choose between breathing and the fit of laughter she’s currently overcome by, she’d pick the latter. Every time.

“Honey, I keep telling ya, I ain’t here on behalf of the Bat,” Matches insists. He sticks a cigarette in his mouth, glances at the vine currently inching towards him, and leaves it unlit. Smart man. “Hell, I don’t even _know_ the Bat.”

In the moment it takes Harley to consider that, the aforementioned vine has forcibly wrenched the cigarette out of Matches’ mouth. His startled _hey!_ and the immediate disappearance of the cigarette has Harley in stitches again. “Fine,” she finally agrees, catching her breath. “Guess if you were working with the Bat, you’d be a lot quicker, huh?”

Matches pats himself down and replaces the lost cigarette with a match. Of course.

“But--” And here Harley circles Matches, stands up on her tiptoes so she can look him square in the eye and smiles, big and bright. “ _But_ ,” she repeats. “ _You’re_ sayin’ you know the Bat’s coming after Pammy and ya want me to believe you don’t know ‘im? Oh, please, Malone. You’re cute an’ all but I ain’t as dumb as you look.”

This little tirade leads nowhere. Matches is so very focused on the inhabitants of the greenhouse (which is to say: the plants), looking like he expects to be jumped at any moment, that some form of selective deafness might’ve taken over. Harley shrugs.

His loss.

“Look, Quinn, if you want your girl safe, just take me to her. How’s that sound?” Matches is starting to lose his patience -- fun in theory and just that. Harley laughs anyway, hard not to when one finds oneself face to face with a mobster straight outta the 30’s. She wonders, vaguely, if Matches’ got the same taste in cheap flicks Joker had.

“Sorry, she don’t work with men. As a matter of fact, neither do I!” Harley sticks her tongue out for good measure and eyes the nearest sledgehammer. Matches is starting to get on her nerves, that’s reason enough as far as she’s concerned. “So, you leavin’ or what?”

Another staring contest between Matches and the plants ensues. A couple of vines twitch faintly, Matches reaches for the gun he doesn’t carry and groans.

If it’s a disguise, and Harley’s got her preferred suspicions about that, it’s not a very good one. Matches Malone might blend in with the average gangster but that rarely amounts to much in the company of Gotham’s unique class of criminals.

“Guess I’m leavin’,” he agrees, hesitant.

“Great!” Harley squeals and pets Matches’ cheek. “Oh, and Malone? Tell B-man not to send ya ‘round here no more.”

Matches just waves her off, dismissive to the bitter end, as he walks out of the greenhouse.


	3. nygma, edward

“Hey, hey, kid, be cool, just... be cool,” Matches whispers, panic making already-mumbled words nearly incomprehensible. “Just breathe, ya hear me? _Breathe_ , kid.”

Eddie’s trembling with the effort to keep still, heart going a mile a minute as Matches fumbles to unbutton his shirt. He can’t-- There’s blood--

There’s blood all over him. It’s _soaking_ into him. He shouldn’t have pulled out the knife.

Oh, god.

It takes everything he’s got not to scream when Matches grabs his face, big warm hands cupping his cheeks, holding him in place. Eddie can’t lean against the wall, can’t do anything but stare at his own reflection in Matches’ sunglasses and ignore the fact that he might just meet his end in a dirty alleyway behind the Iceberg Lounge.

He tries to breathe. In and out. In and out.

And Matches’ hands are still touching his _face_. It’s the kind of thing he can’t handle on a good day, let alone on this very loose definition of a deathbed.

“Kid,” Matches repeats. “Kid, just let me do this, alright?”

Words don’t come so easily now. Eddie nods, frantic, spreads out his arms despite the sharp sting of the gash. Trust Joker to use him for target practice--

(It’s not quite that either, Eddie _knows_ , but he so desperately wants this to be something other than a permanent predisposition for the wrong place and time. He couldn’t have possibly predicted that Joker’s continuous attempt to impress one Harvey Dent and a disputable claim of impeccable aim would lead _here_.)

He’s shirtless before he can help it. Matches is methodically ripping his shirt apart to wrap around the wound still gushing blood. Eddie can hear nothing but his own heartbeat, though he’s sure Matches is saying something, _must_ be saying something because the man never shuts up.

It’s all gone hazy with blood loss, soft around the edges of misery. Eddie blinks and next thing he knows he’s being shoved into the passenger seat of a beat-up station wagon.

Matches Malone’s, presumably.

Batman-- _Batman_ would’ve been a lot more gentle, Eddie thinks. He might’ve gotten a bridal carry out of it. It’s a thought so brutally hilarious, he momentarily wonders if the knife had been dipped into some less-than-fatal form of Joker’s toxin. Maybe it’s the blood loss. Again.

And yet the possibility of Arkham is firmly out of the picture in Matches’ hands. Eddie’s grateful for that much.

“Kid, you know Dr. Thompkins?” Matches asks, gruff and sudden, as he reaches to grasp Eddie’s hand. He’d nearly dozed off.

“N-no.” Eddie shakes his head, stands up straight so he doesn’t touch the carseat with his bare back. It’s a valiant effort but in vain all the same, he’s barely got the energy for it.

“Well-- What was it the Joker called ya? Eddie?” Matches jolts him awake again. “Well, _Eddie_ , you’re gonna be just fine, I promise.”


	4. joker, the

The moment his sleeve starts feeling unusually warm, Joker spares a thought for possible explanations without actually, well, checking for himself. He’s busy. He’s _been_ busy for the past few hours and with his luck, that’s not about to change any time soon.

But, and here comes a problem encountered unusually often, his sleeve _keeps_ warming up. “Hmm,” Joker says. His right arm is stinging faintly. That, at last, demands a closer look.

It’s--

Joker shrieks, tosses the last ring he’s holding and watches it land perfectly on a bottle as he flails. “Goddamn!” He flails some more, looks between the prizes stacked up high in the ring toss booth and his flaming sleeve and back again. There’s a split second of hesitation, the possibility of fire safety procedures seems to provoke nothing more than a wave of TV static.

Halfway through Joker’s shouted chorus of _hot, hot, hot!!_ and his current routine of rolling around on the ground, a pair of shoes appear in his field of vision. Leather, worn-down, might’ve been fashionable a couple of decades back. He doesn’t stop screaming.

“Ha, thanks, I didn’t know if this new tie-- Oh my god, you’re on fire!” comes a nasally voice Joker can’t quite place.

Mr. _New Joisey_ over there does, at least, effectively stop the rest of Joker from catching fire via stomping on his sleeve. And arm. “Gee, thanks,” Joker says and finds it quite convenient that he’s left-handed. Small miracles. “You got a name, pal?” he asks as he dusts himself off, though he doesn’t sit up just yet.

Come to think of it, the whole place has gotten a whole lot warmer than a mid-December late afternoon warrants. Joker might not be very bright but he sure is--

“Matches Malone,” the man says, looking mildly towards severely worried as he glances at something in the distance.

“Matches Malone!” Joker shouts. “Ooh, you’re getting me all excited! You’re the fella who tried to get with Pammy, aren’tcha? Tough luck there, Malone.” He nods solemnly, respectful. “See, I’m not much for gals myself but--”

“Uh-huh, listen, Mr. Joker, sir,” Matches starts and ignores Joker’s too cheerful _just call me Joker_ , “See, I was thinkin’ maybe we should get outta here, what with the f-fire an’ all.”

A pause intervenes. “The fire.” Joker looks behind him then, at a raging inferno devouring half the abandoned carnival, and shrieks again -- wordless cry of pure agony. “But… But I just-- I just won!”

The teddy bear, the same one he’d spent six hours trying to win despite no one manning the booth, is now slightly more than singed. It’s _ugly_. Joker feels himself tremble and understands so very little of what’s just transpired. “I just won!” he repeats, face all scrunched up in an effort to keep at bay the dawning stupidity of tears.

 _Tears_. As if the Joker would cry over an abandoned carnival and-- he’s sobbing. He hadn’t even noticed.

“Um,” Matches says, pats his shoulder so very gently that Joker barely feels it. It’s quite overwhelmingly impossible not to bite him. “I’m real sorry ‘bout your… prize, Mr. Joker, sir, but I’d say it’s time to vamoose, wouldn’t want you to get hurt, y’know.”

“Do you work for me?” Joker asks, tear-streaked still. He _has_ to ask, though he’s mostly sure its not him who’s employed Gotham’s most notorious arsonist to burn down his occasional home. There’s the brief fluttering of a half-formed thought -- he’s seen Matches before, he’s sure, but the _when_ and _where_ are a different matter altogether.

“Not yet.”

“Ah.”

Joker lets Matches pull him up, allows himself the benefit of one final glance at his would-be teddy bear and sighs.

**Author's Note:**

> find on tumblr @ufonaut


End file.
